


by handing over all the olive trees

by blackwood (transjon)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ace subtype: kinky, Foreplay, Mild Consensual Non-consent, Mild Painplay, Mild Praise Kink, Nipple Play, No Sex, Other, Overstimulation, They/Them Pronouns for Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Female Character, transfeminine jon sims
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:01:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28571181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transjon/pseuds/blackwood
Summary: So: it’s new, but it’s also not. It’s new, but it’s also normal.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Comments: 16
Kudos: 60
Collections: t4tma week 2021





	by handing over all the olive trees

**Author's Note:**

> title is from ill believe in anything by wolf parade!
> 
> day 2 of t4tma: foreplay/transition! jon and daisy are both transfeminine and on E. tldr jons brand new titties are sensitive and ache bc theyre, yknow, growing, and both jon and daisy think thats neat. 
> 
> jons nonbinary but daisy call them a good girl, which jon likes, ie. its not a misgendering thing. no words are used for genitalia, jons chest is referred to with the words chest/breasts/nipples. 
> 
> mild cnc refers to the fact that they have a safeword instead of relying on a verbally expressed "no" as an indicator to stop [which jon doesnt use - he does say no, which is acknowledged to not mean that hes revoking consent], because the point of the scene is to get jon overstimulated haha.

The thing about their chest, Jon thinks, idly tracing gentle lines over the soft swell of it, is that it _hurts_. 

It’s been a few months. The first stabbing, aching pains had taken them by surprise, almost, and Daisy’d looked at them, face all stony and careful, and said, “yeah, that happens.”

It shouldn’t have been reassuring. It shouldn’t have made them feel better. It had, though – Daisy making sympathetic noises as Jon whimpers as if they’ve been stabbed but not making a big deal out of it. Hardly a deal at all, really. Jon clutches their chest and grits their teeth and Daisy strokes their back with a singular hand and coos at them, but that’s it. 

So: it’s new, but it’s also not. It’s new, but it’s also normal. Jon digs their fingers into the tender, aching peak of their breast, and hisses out loud. 

Daisy, next to them, looks over at them with a look of mild interest. “What’s up?” she asks. 

Jon doesn’t bother looking up at her. “Sore,” they mumble. The pad of one finger flicks the small, pebbled nipple it finds there. “Ow.” 

“Leave it alone, then,” says Daisy, ever the pragmatist. “Stop touching.”

Jon pouts at her, but they let go of their breast, although they leave their hand to hover over the general area of their chest. Daisy puts her book down and looks at them properly. Jon looks back petulantly, and then worldlessy cups their other breast in their hand, only to hiss in discomfort as soon as their fingers dig into the tissue. 

Daisy sighs. The book goes to the night stand. Daisy’s hand goes to the back of Jon’s neck. “What’d I tell you?” she asks. 

Jon squirms slightly, testing out the strength of her grip. “To not touch,” they say. Daisy watches them wet their lips, the pink tip of their tongue poking out for a few seconds. It’s the watching, Jon thinks, the watching and the seeing. Daisy’s piercing eyes cataloguing and categorizing each of their actions. 

“And what are you doing?”

Jon’s fingers dig into the flesh, firm and deliberate, the palm of their hand brushing against the nipple gently. It still hurts. “Touching,” they exhale. 

The growl that comes out of Daisy’s mouth is almost as good as the sudden motion of her hands, her body, her legs as she straddles Jon’s hips, the hand on their neck moving to grab their wrist and pin it onto the bed. 

“Jon,” she says. Jon shudders, and licks their lips. They think vaguely about wolves, then. The licking of one’s lips as a signal of submission.

“Sorry,” they whimper, hips bucking up into the contact eagerly. “I’m sorry.”

They’re not, and Daisy knows it. “God,” she mutters, and then she leans forward, and Jon’s breath hitches, turns into a high-pitched sob as she closes her lips around Jon’s nipple. 

“Daisy,” they gasp out, hands batting at her back uselessly, and then when that doesn’t make her let up they scrape their fingers over her skin, nails digging into the flesh there. “Fuck, fuck –”

Daisy lets go of their nipple with a wet popping noise only to replace her mouth with two fingers. “Isn’t this what you wanted?” she asks. Her nails tease the shape of the nipple in a ghost of a threat to sink themselves into the vulnerable, sensitive flesh. 

“No,” Jon denies, but their hips buck again. 

Daisy smiles. Something predatory glints in the whites of her teeth. They both know that right now, when Jon says _no_ they mean _keep going._ Jon looks at her with their head tilted to the side, throat bared. Daisy eyes that vulnerable stretch of flesh like a piece of meat to sink her teeth into.

“No?”

“It hurts,” says Jon. This time when they go to twist their hips into the contact of Daisy’s body Daisy spreads her hand over the shape of their breast and presses it down against their ribcage firmly, and Jon’s mouth opens in a wordless, desperate moan, which turns into a string of hiccuping _ah, ah_ noises as Daisy seals her mouth over the slick jut of their nipple, teeth grazing over the tip to make them squirm and buck. “Daisy,” they say, and Daisy growls, which reverberates throughout Jon’s body, which makes them squirm desperately. 

Daisy, satisfied with the effect of her lips and teeth on Jon, pulls away again. “Does it, now,” she says flatly, not quite a question. Her hand doesn’t let up. The one clasped around Jon’s wrist, the one pressing it into the mattress, flexes and moves so that she can dig her nails into their skin. 

“Yes,” says Jon, teeth gritting. Daisy shifts slightly on top of them, her body pressing them further into the mattress. 

“That sounds unfortunate,” says Daisy, and then she leans down and sucks the nipple of their other breast into her mouth. 

Jon’s body goes lightning-rod tense. Daisy’s hand stays on the other hand of their chest, fingers massaging and kneading the flesh of it with such cruel precision that the air threatens to leave them entirely, their entire existence pinpointed to the slick suction of Daisy’s mouth, and the perfect, horrible kneading of her hand. 

They know that Daisy can feel them through their underwear. They also know Daisy’s not going to touch unless they ask. Jon whines and bucks and throws their head back in a futile effort to arch their back to get away from the relentless stimulation, but Daisy is heavy and big and puts her entire weight into keeping them still, and there’s nowhere for Jon to _go_ , not with Daisy’s thighs clasped around their hips. Even with one arm free Jon couldn’t shake her if they tried, which they know from experience, and Daisy knows this too, her head moving just slightly to look at them with an amused look in her eyes, never letting go of the nipple in her mouth. 

“Please,” Jon whispers. The ache in their chest spreads and peaks and stays there, right at the peak, never dissipating. They can feel tears gathering in the corners of their eyes, and then slipping down their cheeks. 

It’s unbearable. It’s _exhilarating_. 

“Have you learned anything?” Daisy asks, and then, without waiting for Jon to respond, closes her mouth around as much of Jon’s small breast as she can, teeth digging into the skin gentle but so, so painful, and Jon yelps, entire body jolting. 

What they want to say is _yes_ , or _enough_ , or _please, please_. It’s what they should say, at least. Isn’t that the whole point? Correcting unwanted behavior?

“No,” is what they say instead, which is exactly what Daisy wanted them to say, which is why the reward she gives them is a hard, aggressive bite that lands right underneath the base of their nipple, right where the brown of their areola ends, and this time Jon really does scream. 

Daisy pulls away, but both of her hands go to their breasts, one for each of them, and when she calls them a _brat_ they’re already crying too hard to respond properly, which is the _actual_ , real point. The heaving of their chest in Daisy’s merciless, precise hands. The squirming of their lithe, long body under her weight. 

Eventually the kneading stops, although it takes a few moments for that to register, and when it does register it registers as _pain_. It hardly makes sense, Jon thinks hazily, seeing how they’d spent the last however many minutes of torture it’s been hoping for nothing more than for her to let go, but the absence of touch is almost more painful than the pressure of Daisy’s fingers. Cold air rushes to take the place of Daisy’s warm, broad hands. 

“Please,” Jon whispers, although they’re not sure what they’re asking for anymore. The pebbled peaks of their nipples strain against the cool air of the room, as if begging for Daisy to put her mouth on them again. “Please, Daisy.”

Daisy, unbothered and seemingly unaffected, doesn’t put her mouth on them again. “D’you want to get fucked?” she asks. One hand traces an idle, lazy line down their ribcage, all the way to the jut of their hip.

Jon, eyes still hazy with tears, looks at her. The slick shine of her swollen lips. Their hips move hesitantly, as if to test if they can. Daisy allows them to, her weight shifting forward to allow them to grind against her to test out the give of her body. 

“Please,” they say, soft and broken. 

Daisy puts her hand on their cheek. Jon looks away, and Daisy, pleased with the submission of it, licks a line from their jaw to the corner of their mouth to make them whine. 

“Good girl,” she says. Her hand closes around their neck, gentle enough. “Good girl.”

Jon, still half misery, half pleasure, takes the words and slots them into the part of their brain that still exists in the lingering sharp ache of their breasts. 

“Thank you,” they breathe out, “thank you.”


End file.
